I rarely waver with decisions that have been made and done. Choosing a college, moving to Japan, switching careers—I might have labored over the lead-up, but once the pin is out, I’ve never had a problem committing to a huge change of circumstance. It’s the more amorphous, inconsequential decisions that haunt me—questions of identity and self-expression, the age-old Who do I want to be? and How will I get there? For a long time, I’ve been content refusing to dream, refusing to see myself as someone great or credible—not least because, as of now, I am not.
I’ve tried to define myself in spurts, through a photography Instagram account, a website, and now, a Substack. But every time that I lay the groundwork, once I’ve considered and configured my strategy, I get cold feet. I imagine eyes through the screen, people who have found in front of them a glimpse of something that is just me. Writing for a publication, there is validation—not only of quality, but of impetus. I wrote this because someone thought I should. On Substack and elsewhere, the only one asking me to do this is me. And that is terribly embarrassing.
It’s only recently that I admitted something to myself: I have things to say. I hope people respond.
I’m no longer content in my vacuum, mindlessly consuming. I want to express myself. I want to be challenged and critiqued. But that doesn’t change how self-conscious I feel, and I wonder how people before me did it—if it’s a generational thing, or if we’ve always been horrified of this “mortifying ordeal of being known.”1
In any case, there’s not much room for negotiation here. If I want to be someone, all I can do is plunge in.